The Sunshine Killers (2 page)

“I didn't like him,” Tomlain answered. “And anyway, he ain't supposed to be here.” He called to Schmidt. “What'd you let him stay for, Schmidt? McGraw bought this whole goddam town. He ain't going to like no strangers around.”

Schmidt pointed at Billy. “He said it was all right.”

Billy turned to Tomlain. “Mister McGraw also said not to draw no notice. You don't run a man out in the snow on a freezing night, not at a public inn. And you sure don't pick a fight with him.”

“Well, I don't like it,” Tomlain growled. “And I'm going to find out that pilgrim's business. What's he doing here, anyway?”

Billy made a disgusted sound. “You just don't like it because he had that sharpshooter's rifle. You don't like anyone you think could shoot as good as you. Tomlain, you ain't the only rifle shot in the world.”

Tomlain looked at him and took a drink of whiskey. “I ought to run him off. Or kill him.”

“He'll be gone in the morning,” Billy said.

 

Outside, the man trudged slowly through the snow, watching out from under his hat, as the half-breed took his horse into the stable. The bunkhouse was a long, adobe building with tiny windows and a pole roof chinked in with more adobe. The man went in. There were eight or ten bunks lined up on each side of the room: wooden frames with rawhide strips for springs and no mattresses. The man sank down tiredly on the nearest one. For a moment he didn't move. Finally he heaved himself and removed his big coat. Still as if in slow motion he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up the heavy underwear he was wearing underneath. His left side was heavily bandaged. The bandage was stained with dried blood. He touched it gingerly and grimaced. The wound was about midway down his left side. It was a gunshot wound and, from the way the man moved, you could tell it might have broken a rib or two. He touched it again, exploring the painful area with sensitive fingers, then pulled his underwear down and buttoned his shirt. At that moment the half-breed came in with his bedroll. He came up and laid it at the foot of the man's bed. “I see your horse is feexed up good,” the boy said.

The man nodded. “There's a drink still coming in the money I left at the bar. Tell Schmidt I said you were to have it.” He went slowly to his pocket and brought out another silver dollar. “Go get me whatever piece of a bottle that will buy and some tobacco.”

The boy took the money, but stood there looking at him for a second. “You seek?”

“No,” the man said. “Go on.”

When the boy had left, the man spread the bedroll out on the cot, putting his big rifle in at the side. He bothered to take off his boots, the effort obviously painful, then sat down on the bed and laid back. Lying there he took his big pistol out of the holster, saw to its loading, then slipped it in his belt. Then he lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the boy to come back with the whiskey in hopes that it would dull the pain of the gunshot wound in his side.

 

Morning came swiftly. The snow had ceased and the sun was out. Its beams, shining through the small windows of the dim bunkhouse, were like rays from a lantern, cutting sharply through the smoke and the dark air. The man came awake all at once, aware that there were men standing around him. Three, all from the evening before, were there, just at the end of his bunk, staring at him silently. Instinctively his hand went to the gun in his belt, then relaxed as he saw they didn't have weapons out. Then he noticed that his shirt was open and his undershirt pulled up, exposing the bandage. The wound had been bleeding afresh and someone had seen it and investigated. His eyes went quickly from face to face; he recognized two of them, Tomlain and Billy. Tomlain was the nearest, standing just to the right. Billy was at the foot of the bed. When he saw that the man was awake he grinned and said, “Going to sleep all day?”

But the man made no sign; he was watching Tomlain, noting that he was wearing a pistol set up for someone who might want to get at it in a hurry. Tomlain suddenly leaned over and, with an ungentle finger, jabbed the man in his wound. “Where'd you get that, boy?” he asked.

The man flinched, but made no sound. Instead his eyes got very hard. His hand was still resting just off the butt of the pistol in his belt. Billy said, “Don't do that, Tomlain. You can see it hurts him.”

“I ain't worryin' about that,” Tomlain said. He licked his lips and grinned. “I want to know what done it. I want a few answers off our old buddy boy here.”

The man, still without showing any sign of emotion, hitched himself up further on the bed so that he was no longer lying flat. He could feel a surge of preparation run through him. Billy, recognizing it, said, “Don't be doing that.” He said it almost kindly, but there was a definite threat in his voice. “We just want to know a little about you.” He paused, and, getting no response, added, “We got a reason. See, we don't want no trouble.”

But Tomlain reached down again and prodded at the wound. “That's a gunshot wound, ain't it?”

In a move so swift that it seemed almost casual, the man knocked Tomlain's hand away and then half pulled the pistol out of his belt. He didn't pull it all the way for there were three of them and they were the kind of men, in that time and in that country, who, if you pulled a pistol, would have pulled their own and started shooting. The man did not take hold of his pistol as a threat, but only as a warning. He'd calculated the move to just the right degree and they recognized that.

“Come now,” Billy said. “None of that now. We just want to talk to you.”

“Hell with that, Billy,” Tomlain said, his voice rising. “I want to know who the bastard is and what his business is. I don't want him bringin' no storm down round my ears.”

“See,” Billy explained, “we got some folks around here who get nervous about unusual things goin' on. That's why we just want to ask you a few questions. Hope you'll take it the right way. What's your name?”

The man looked from face to face for a second. Finally he answered, “Name's Saulter.”

“Where you come from, Mister Saulter?”

“South,” the man said.

“We know that,” Billy answered patiently. “What we mainly want to know is what's your business in Sunshine and how come you here?”

The man looked at the three faces slowly. Finally he said in that hoarse whisper, “I need a rest. This place was here . . . I just stumbled on it.”

“Listen,” Tomlain broke in angrily, “this won't get it.” He pointed at Saulter's wound. “Somebody shot you and you're running. What we want to know is are they chasing you? Have you got somebody fixing to come in here with company we don't want to see?”

Saulter was a long time answering. Finally he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “nobody is chasing me. Not now.”

Tomlain made a sneering sound. “Sure, Pilgrim, we believe you. That's why you're running with a bullet in you. If you ain't being chased, why are you on the jump?”

“It's a long story.”

“Well, we want to hear it. We got plenty of time.”

The man shook his head and lay back tiredly, ignoring Tomlain's remark.

Tomlain started to make a move but Billy restrained him. “Aw, let him be, Tomlain. Let him rest a bit, we can take it up with him later. Let's get some breakfast.”

He took the unwilling Tomlain by the arm and pulled him away. But, as they went out, the short gunman turned to look back at Saulter, his leer a promise of more to come.

When they were gone, Saulter swung around and sat on the side of the bed. Slowly, he pulled his undershirt down and buttoned his shirt. In spite of the fire at the far end of the bunkhouse it was still cold and his breath steamed in the air. First he put on his hat and then shrugged into his big coat. He had to rest before he could struggle into his boots. When he was dressed he still sat on his bed, seeming too done in to move just yet. At that moment the half-breed came in with a load of firewood. He carried it down to the fireplace and threw it in, causing sparks and coals to come flying out. Then he came back up to Saulter. “Maybe you buy me one wheesky?”

Saulter didn't move for a second. Finally he reached under the bed and came out with a bottle. He sighted it against the light. There was about an inch left. He uncorked it, took a long drink, then handed the rest to Chiffo. While the boy was drinking, Saulter located the stump of a thin black cigar and lit it. He smoked meditatively for a moment. The boy watched him.

“Who are those men?” Saulter asked.

The boy shrugged. “Just some mens.”

“Do they stay or do they go?”

“They stay.”

“What do they do around here? Do they work? Are they hunters? Prospectors?”

“They don't work. They just stay.”

“How long they been here?”

The boy shrugged. “Pretty long.”

“A week? A month?”

“I don't know. Pretty long. They don't buy me no wheesky.”

“They just sit around here all day?”

“I think,” the boy said, “that they're pretty bad men. Yes, I think maybe they pretty bad. I think maybe they already kill one man maybe two.”

“What for? Did they rob him?”

“Who can say? Maybe they kill somebody. Maybe not.” The boy's face suddenly brightened. “You buy me more drink of wheesky?”

“Not now,” Saulter said. “You go on.”

After the boy was gone Saulter reached in his pocket and took out a little deerskin shot bag. He emptied the contents in his hand. It was all the money he had and he counted it laboriously. Then he clinked it meditatively in his hand. After a second he put it back in the bag and the bag back in his pocket. He sat there thinking that he needed to rest and recuperate, but that he wouldn't be able to do it long in such a place on eight dollars. Well, there really had been no reason for him to have only eight dollars. His pride had been the only reason. But it was too late for that now. Then he sat awhile longer, thinking about this place, this Sunshine town. There was something going on here, something he didn't quite understand. He was not curious about it except as it applied to himself, but the hell of it was that it looked as if it were going to involve him. They didn't want him here. They'd made that plain. For whatever reason. But he was hurt and he was going to have to stop off awhile until he healed. But they'd said one night. That was what the man behind him, at the table, Billy he guessed it was, had told the bartender. Well, he couldn't leave. It was a long way to nowhere across that frozen desert and neither he nor his horse were up to it yet.

So, he guessed, there'd be trouble. He didn't understand it and he probably wouldn't understand it when it came, but he'd handle it. The image of Tomlain ran through his through his mind. He'd seen his kind in camps and bars all over the country. The man wouldn't quit pushing until it came down to guns. He expected he'd have to kill Tomlain. He might have it out with all of them if it came to that, but he hoped not. He tried to think how many there were. There'd been three that morning, but there were others. Five or six, he guessed. Well, he was in kind of a fix, a little bit of a tight place. For whatever reason, they seemed too set on making him leave, but they ought to realize that he couldn't. He'd walk as quietly as he could, but he didn't think it was going to do much good.

He got up and left the bunkhouse and went in the store. The others were there and he took a table in a corner, off by himself. They watched him steadily, all of them. From behind the bar Schmidt called to ask if he wanted coffee. “Yes,” Saulter said. He got out one of the little thin, black cigars and lit it, the strong smoke biting him deep in the lungs. Through it he could see Tomlain watching him, not taking his eyes off him even when he turned his head to spit.

When Schmidt brought his coffee, he asked what he could have to eat for breakfast.

“Beans,” the owner said. “Or bacon.”

“Do you have any eggs?”

Schmidt laughed, loudly. “Did you hear that?” he called to the other men. “He wants eggs.”

“Tell him to go lay one,” Tomlain said.

Saulter did not respond. He sat there, not looking at anything particular, breathing shallowly because his ribs hurt otherwise. The wound itself hadn't been so bad; it had missed his lungs by a good inch or two. If it just hadn't broken those two ribs. It pulled him down, wore him out.

Schmidt finally brought his food and, as he sat there eating the poor fare, Billy got up from the group at the table, coffee cup in hand, and came over and sat down. “Mind if I visit a minute?” he asked.

Saulter, busy with a mouthful of bacon, just shook his head. He had been expecting something ever since he'd come in. He was just hopeful it would hold off long enough for him to eat.

Billy sat there for a long moment, watching Saulter eat, taking little sips of his coffee. Finally he said, “I guess you'll be moving on, won't you? Right after you finish your breakfast?”

“No.”

Billy shook his head and smiled slightly. “I think it'd be a good idea. Can't be nothing about Sunshine to attract you.”

Saulter said, “I need the rest.” He was willing to go that far, to explain.

Billy nodded. “Your wound. I understand.” He jerked his head toward the other table. “Listen, I'm sorry about the way old Tomlain acted. Over at the bunkhouse. That's just his way. He's about as bred up as a common goat.”

Saulter nodded.

Billy scratched his chin and glanced over at Saulter's rifle. It was leaning against the table, right at Saulter's side. “That thing's big as a cannon. It go everywhere with you?”